Walk Away
by Yumi-chan-likes-chainsaws
Summary: America walks away from him a lot, but England wonders why he never leaves. UKxUS, mild dub-con


**_A/N: Uhm, Awesome August is starting, well today. So that means You can request me to write pretty much anything. You can check for details on my profile, alright ^^' If you want to, that is -_-_**

**_This was written for the usxuk livejournal community's summercamp. And it's based on 'Walk Away' by The Script ^_^_**

**_Anyways, this contains mild sexual content, unintentionally mildly implied shota, dub-con, England being rather strange; you tell me if I need to make this M rated ^^' Here you go~(I hope this one fits the theme too D:)_**

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The child was sitting on the edge of the river, his pure white night gown trailing in the mud and water as he washed his face, letting most of the water run through his fingertips and down into the soil. He giggled lightly as he grabbed another handful of water, just for it to trickle away again.

England watched, slowly taking everything about this scene in, his hands leaving slight nail marks in the bark of the tree he was behind. The scene was rather darling; perfect for the little child that would soon be his.

_His. _That was a good word.

America was a name that seemed quite big for such a small little mite at first glance, but he was more than just a frail body and innocent mind. He _was _America; big name or not, and it suited him perfectly. The child's blonde hair fluttered in the breeze, water droplets clinging to it, and he was still letting out little laughs at how impossible it was to hold liquid, no matter what way he cupped his hands.

America giggled, turning on his heel to leave the clearing when he stopped, dead in his tracks like a deer that had just seen the barrel of the hunter's gun. England turned in slowly so his back was to the tree and stayed utmost still until the pitter patter sound of little feet could be heard on the gravel far off past the clearing, getting quieter and quieter.

It was okay that the child ran away, England assured himself, picking up his rucksack and throwing it over his shoulder. The child was his. He couldn't run away for long.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

_Don't you turn away from me. Don't you **dare**._

England would have been lying if he said he didn't imagine it ending like this. Everything always ended in fire and rain, so he shouldn't be surprised or even be as weak as to be sitting knee deep in mud. The words spoken must have cut through him more than he had anticipated, because his chest was numb now and he was grateful for a break in the excruciating pain.

It was all America's fault. He didn't want to be owned, be a possession. But he _was_ a possession, and dolls should not disobey the children they were bought to please.

The funny thing about it all was that, it was never the harsh words or flying fists or even the plain as day insolence that sent him over the edge. It was the walking away. America's retreating back. He could never bear it, even if it was only for bed or the toilet. The pain was impossible.

"D-don't leave."

England almost sneered at how pathetic he sounded. Was that how America had broken him? Was he so broken that all he could do was beg for the pain to stop as soon as it did when the numbness settled in? Was that it?

_I **love** him._

But love means nothing as he turned around again and England's breath hitched painfully.

He said something England couldn't hear. His mouth was moving, but nothing was coming out.

_Speak louder darling, I can't hear you over the silence._

And then it was over.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It took America a long time to enter the Great War.

But when he did, England couldn't find it in himself to be grateful.

As he stood, maybe a step ahead of the other Allied Forces, and the fighter plane came down to the ground, England felt completely numb. The doorway opened and the stairs were let down, and he lowered his head as America stepped off the plane.

England lifted his gaze. America looked older, so much older. It didn't matter that he still had the grin of a small child, because he couldn't still have the same little laugh any more.

This wasn't the America who left him behind, England though heavily, as America's hand patted his shoulder before he went on to chatter with the others. This was a different America.

This America wasn't his.

England watched as the other man put his arm around his new found allies, talking away, ninety miles an hour without a breath. America was quiet, always so quiet around him. Like a little doll, only falling out of character- like a fairy story- when the master was not around.

And England didn't want to own this energetic young man.

"England, hurry up!" he heard the unfamiliar voice yell, "You're such an old man! Did this take that much outta you?"

England wanted America to own _him_.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It was like their positions had been reversed.

It was no longer England trying to start up a conversation with a startled, reluctant child, but vice a versa. America would invite him for coffee after a meeting, knowing he would decline, but always trying anyways, just like England coaxed that child.

England didn't like being around this new America. The little bit of heart he had left always throbbed painfully with what England always told himself was guilt and regret, but was slowly realising that it was _want._

So America would just huff and say, "Have it your way, old man!" and walk out of that room and England would always think that it was so similar to over one hundred years earlier when that hardly formed boy turned his back on him.

_Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run run run_

_Don't give the farmer his fun fun fun_

_He'll get by without his rabbit pie_

_So, run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run run run_

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"I like you."

England looked up slowly from his tea cup, his ears denying what words were foreign to him. "What was that?" he asked, calmly, but he wasn't calm inside his own head.

America pulled at his sleeve awkwardly, a sheepish smile spread across his face. "You know, I like you. Like, I _like _like you. A lot."

England's hand twitched around his cup. Any tighter and it would be shattered on the floor. He invited the man to tea to talk about business, and all he does is spout nonsense for the entire time. But that was the last straw.

"You're lying," he said quietly, standing up and taking the cup out of America's hand, regardless of whether or not he was finished with it. America jumped from his chair and followed him hurriedly into the kitchen where he was draining the last drops from the cups into the sink.

"I'm not!" he said indignantly, the flush on his cheeks that had been present earlier coming back with full force, "Why would you think that?"

"You're talking nonsense," England replied shortly again, grabbing a duster to clean off the perfectly clean counter. It was a distracting task from the topic at hand. "It's probably due to all that coffee shit you drink. You should cut down, it cannot be good for you; damn caffeine."

He was rambling and he knew it. He was also going to erode the counter if he kept rubbing it so hard with the detergent, but that didn't stop him.

America grabbed his wrist, yanking the cloth from his clenched hands and staring at him with the most serious of expressions England had ever seen grace the boy's face. It was mesmerizing.

"I'm not lying, England," he told him, quietly dropping his wrist. It hit England's side with a lifeless thud. "Why won't you believe me?"

England believed him. America couldn't, wouldn't lie.

He just couldn't trust his own ears not to be lying. Or his own mind that it wasn't just a dream.

"I'll humour you."

He couldn't trust himself.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

He was regretting agreeing to this already.

America whimpered lightly as England dug his nails into his waist for the umpteenth time. He reached down to try and grab the older's chin, but England moved skilfully out of his reach again. If he kissed him now, it would give the impression that this was what love was meant to be like.

It wasn't. Not like this.

He bit down on the younger's shoulder, eliciting a squeak of discomfort from him as he squirmed. Why was he deliberately ripping America's ideals apart? He balanced on one arm while using his free hand to pull at America's blondish hair, hard. All he got was another wriggle.

He took his hand away from America's hair and wrapped around his wrist, balancing himself on it so he could use his other hand to grab America's other wrist. He pinned them down roughly to the pillows, watching those big blue eyes with nerve wracking guilt.

_You should have run away, little rabbit. _

After nothing was said and everything was done, England moved away from America, not being able to look into those eyes any longer. He rolled away and grabbed one of the unused pillows, shoving it over his head to try and block out the sounds of America scrambling around- no doubt wincing while doing so- trying to clean up.

There was no tell tale sigh of the mattress in a couple of minutes, just the squeaking of the bedroom door and a padding down the hallway. England let go of the pillow and turned to the perfectly made side of the bed, looking at it with detachment.

_I'm sorry you got caught in my headlights._

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It had been five days since England had stopped talking.

America had tried to coax him into speaking to him with no avail. It was about then when he realised that he might be the reason England wasn't speaking.

So, as England sat in the kitchen, staring out the window into the back garden, the front door was pulled open gently, and there were a few sounds that England didn't care to place before the door shut behind America and it was all over again.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Two days later, England hadn't spoken yet because he wasn't in the habit of talking to himself, at least not yet. His fairies were gone somewhere. They always left when America was around because they didn't like being blatantly ignored.

But two days later, England opened the door to America's pathetically apologetic face and the withered bunch of mauve lilies he carried.

"Why are you here?" England asked, speaking for the first time in little over a week. His voice was hoarse from lack of use and raspy from lack of liquid. He moved aside to let America in.

"I missed you?"

It sounded more like a question than anything else, and England wanted to answer in the negative, because his ears were deceiving him again. He blew it, so why should America care enough to come back again?

"Sure," he managed, taking the half dead flowers from America's hands and leaving them, abandoning them, on the hall table.

"I mean it, England," America said earnestly, dropping his two hands on England's shoulders, trying to ignore the flinch they were received with. "I always do. Why is it so hard for you to believe that I'm telling the truth; that this is what I want?"

England wanted to spit at him, earnest or not. Maybe it was because America hadn't cared for him before and that was the reason, or maybe it was because he couldn't see why anyone else would like him when he didn't even like himself.

"It's not hard," he replied coolly, "its not hard at all."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The second time was less violent, but by no means gentle.

And England still regretted every minute of it.

He didn't regret it because he never wanted it, quite the contrary. He regretted it because he couldn't see why America wanted it, wanted him.

England may not have admitted it to himself and definitely not to anyone else, but he loved that boy.

He just couldn't understand why those feelings were returned so innocently.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

England thought he was going crazy.

How could he want America to leave him so badly, need to let him go and live his own life in the lightness of the remarkable side of the world, yet still begrudge him happiness?

If America looked at someone else before looking at him, the pain in England's chest started up again.

If America talked to someone else without him, his mind wandered on whether or not that person was better company to America than he was.

He wanted to let him go, he knew that. He didn't _want _or _mean _to begrudge him happiness.

He just didn't want to be around to see it.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"England, something's up, isn't it?"

England looked up from his embroidery to look at America intently. "What do you mean?"

America sat down on the sofa beside him. The television was on low volume, playing some show that neither of them recognized any more. America had been previously pacing the hallway while England calmly did his sewing.

"You're acting so strange. You've always acted so strange," America looked desperate, wringing his hands together, "Honestly, you can tell me. Did I say something wrong?"

England kept quiet, watching those blue eyes, the ones that could shine so much brighter, as they watched him, carefully and intently, looking for any signs of life. And then the lights dropped and so did the younger's gaze and England's heart as it sank to his stomach.

"I see," America muttered, standing up from the chair heavily, "Right then, I'll just go to bed then."

He had made his way across the room before his words even reached England's ears. And when they did, England stood up, hands shaking with self loathing as he choked out, "Please don't leave." America stopped and turned, silently. England stood a little taller despite how small he felt.

"I-I love you."

There was silence and England felt his legs were going to give way beneath him and he was going to go toppling onto the sofa behind him. But then America smiled.

It was a very small step, but it was hope.

_It's the walking away that makes everything real._

**| E . N . D |**


End file.
